


Dereliction of Duty

by fElBiTeR



Series: Finding Comfort In Chaos [2]
Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Consent is Sexy, Exhaustion, First Time, Humor, I Swear To God That Alex Has Leftover Trauma From Point Blanc And It Makes Me Want To Cry, Inappropriate Erections, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Teasing, That Particular Scene With Sasha Gave Me The Heebie-Jeebies, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fElBiTeR/pseuds/fElBiTeR
Summary: Yassen not only walks Alex all the way home despite his initial protests, but the assassin also helps treat Alex's injuries and pain, surprisingly in more ways than one.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Series: Finding Comfort In Chaos [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817281
Comments: 13
Kudos: 138





	Dereliction of Duty

**Author's Note:**

> 1) this is sort of an alternative ending to the previous fic in this series  
> 2) I know this is definitely not everyone's cup of tea, so you DON’T, again, I reiterate, you DO NOT have to read this fic in order to understand anything else I'm going to write for this series  
> 3) however, if you find yourself here without reading hiraeth, you might be feeling a bit lost, so I recommend you read that one first and then come back  
> 4) there’s minimal sleep deprived editing at best. and some grammarly, too  
> 5) I haven't written any smut for a hot minute so I apologize :') the explicit content is really more toward the tail end of the fic?  
> 6) please suspend your disbelief... I literally have no idea what I'm doing
> 
> I hope you enjoy!<3

“This is me,” Alex says, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. They stop walking. Alex gestures to the house nearest to them with an awkward wave of his hand. He has no idea what time it is, but judging from the pitch blackness of the roads only barely illuminated by the street lights and their tall, scattered shadows trailing them, it’s probably late.

There’s a contemplative pause.

“Nice try, Alex,” Yassen acknowledges, “but... it is a little bit insulting to me.” There’s an angry honk of a car somewhere far off in the distance.

“I had to at least try,” Alex mutters, face flushing an embarrassed shade of pink, staring at an extremely interesting patch of cement beneath his shoes. He had been wondering on the long walk whether or not Yassen already knew his address. Alex really, really should have known better.

“It would have probably worked if it wasn’t me,” Yassen assures. Alex doesn’t meet his gaze even though he can feel the weight of Yassen’s eyes on his face.

They cross the street and walk another block or so until they reach Alex’s actual home, left to him after Yassen killed Ian. 

They both pause in front of the door. Alex reaches for his keys, positioning himself so that his body faces away from Yassen and toward the door, obscuring the other man completely from Alex’s line of sight. This would be the appropriate time for the assassin to disappear into the darkness of the night. Or stab Alex in the back with a sharp knife.

After Alex unlocks the door, he glances backwards, really only as an afterthought, fully confident that Yassen has left.

Except. Yassen is still standing there, arms crossed and looking faintly amused.

“What the actual fuck,” Alex says.

“Language,” Yassen chides, without skipping a beat.

“MI6 could be waiting for you inside,” Alex says.

“No,” Yassen disagrees, simply.

Alex begins to argue. “Jack—” 

“—is not home,” Yassen cuts him off with a matter-of-factly stare.

“How could you possibly know that?” Alex retorts. There’s no doubt that Yassen knows those two things and even more. The question he should really be asking is what does Yassen _not_ know.

Yassen doesn’t make any indications that he’s going to leave any time soon.

“None of Ian’s stuff is here anymore,” Alex says, as blankly as he can, but the pained tone that comes through betrays how he genuinely feels. “MI6 cleared his stuff completely. You won’t find anything.”

“That was not my intention,” Yassen shakes his head slightly. He’s being honest.

“Then—” Alex tries to say. 

Yassen waits expectantly to counter his next ridiculous excuse.

“Then…” Alex falters. He closes his mouth and then groans, an annoyed sound that comes from deep within his soul. He turns around and enters his home, and he automatically knows without needing to check that Yassen is following closely, even politely closing and locking the front door behind him, like a proper guest.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Alex mutters, tossing his keys into a decorative bowl near the door. He’s voluntarily let an assassin into his home. Into _Ian’s_ home. Ian is probably rolling in his grave.

Alex peers into the living room, then the kitchen. He listens closely for another person’s footsteps or any rustling of sorts. True to Yassen’s word, Jack isn’t home.

“Where is she?” Alex demands, his first thoughts tipping towards suspicion of the assassin.

Yassen shrugs. Alex _really_ wants to hit him.

His intent probably shows on his face because Yassen suddenly takes the time to explain how MI6 phoned to warn Jack about the clone version of Alex.

“So she’s probably at my school or with Tom,” Alex mutters, mostly to himself.

Alex suddenly feels extremely filthy. He’s been slapped once, kicked in at least ten instances, and punched god knows how many times in how many places. He’s hit the ground and nearly eaten dirt several times, and he’s been wearing his school uniform for over sixteen hours. This has got to be a new record.

Alex completely ignores Yassen’s intimidatingly imposing presence in favor of a shower. He doesn’t even offer the assassin tea or anything, formalities be damned. Yassen can bugger off and make his own tea if he really wants to. He’ll probably snoop around the entire house, too. Alex knows this as a fact, but he can’t find the strength in him to care very much.

He makes a quick visit to his bedroom to grab a change of clothes and then hobbles into the bathroom, shrugging his dark blue jacket off, the outermost wear of his school uniform, and then his trousers and everything else, careless discarding them somewhere on the floor. He can almost hear an admonishing voice in his head at the sight of his dirty and worn clothes strewn about. Alex sighs, picks them up, and places them on the closed toilet seat.

He steps in the shower and proceeds to scrub himself clean of the filthiness of his fight with Julius, finally allowing himself the time to think clearly for the first time tonight.

Alex is alive. Julius didn’t kill him. Julius is dead. This thing with Point Blanc is finally over. Yassen is in his house.

 _Yassen is in my house_ , he thinks, deliriously.

He watches water swirl down the drain of his shower. He can’t deny it. Even though Yassen Gregorovich killed Ian, Alex finds that he actually enjoys the company of the assassin.

“Fuck,” Alex says out loud, guilt settling in his stomach like a heavy stone. Their conversations over the last hour, Yassen saving Alex from Julius, saving him from his own stupidity and from gravity and a flight of stairs, Yassen being insistent on walking Alex home... Alex has a feeling that it all points to some bizarre fondness Yassen has for him, for reasons unknown. He briefly wonders if he’d be able to get Yassen to reveal those reasons, but he quickly dissolves the thought with a shake of his head. They swirl down the drain alongside suds and water.

The hot water soothes as much as it stings his skin.

The MI6 agents let their guards down around Julius. They were careless. Unhelpful.

Yassen is the opposite, proven by more than just tonight. He is nothing if not thorough, and Alex has a sneaking suspicion that not one square meter of his house will be safe from Yassen’s scrutiny. The man is deadly, lethal, and gives off the impression that he is fazed by absolutely nothing, which probably isn’t even that far off from the truth. Alex only needs to look as far as Dr. Hugo Greif and the details of his death, as described by Mrs. Jones. All the opposite of careless.

Alex makes up his mind. The moment he’s out of the bathroom, he’s going to either get the reason as to why Yassen wants to be in his house or kick the assassin out.

After he steps out of the shower and clumsily puts on a pair of boxer briefs with the help of some one-legged hopping and wiggling and other too-intricate movements, he suddenly realizes that his entire body hurts ten times more compared to how he felt on the rooftop with Julius when his adrenaline was still pumping, especially his left shoulder and right ankle.

Alex turns his gaze to the mirror, slowly clearing itself of fog from the steam of his shower, bath towel still in hand.

“What—What the…?” Alex stammers, incredulous, staring at the ugly swelling on his shoulder. How had he not noticed before?

There’s something a little... off about how his shoulder looks. He can’t quite place it. 

The bathroom door swings open and Alex freezes in alarm. He could have sworn he locked it.

“Alex,” Yassen begins to say, but Alex kicks him in the chest and out of the bathroom with his remaining good leg and proceeds to slam the door on his face. Yassen catches the closing door with his usual grace, wrenching it back open with an unfair ease.

“Alex,” the assassin tries again, sounding more impatient this time. That’s right. Locks mean nothing to Yassen.

“What do you want?” Alex asks, pretending that he isn’t almost naked and that Yassen isn’t blatantly staring at his battered shoulder. It doesn’t work because Alex’s voice cracks midway through the question and he sounds more hysterical than the neutral tone he was aiming for.

“You were limping as we were walking,” Yassen notes, like it wasn’t glaringly obvious.

“Yeah, and? What does that have to do with you barging in while I’m showering?” Alex glowers at the other man.

Yassen’s eyes move down to Alex’s lips and linger there for a half a beat before moving back up his face. “It doesn’t look like you’re showering right now.”

Alex splutters, actively choosing to ignore what he’s just seen, “That’s not the _point_. I’m not even dressed yet! Couldn’t you have just waited thirty more seconds?” 

Yassen slowly blinks at him. “Do you keep a first aid kit in here?

“It’s under the sink,” Alex mutters, reaching for his shirt, but he winces when his shoulder suddenly _burns_ , raw and throbbing, like someone’s just taken a sledgehammer and swung it directly at the joint. He bites down hard on his lip to stifle the choked noise threatening to escape his throat.

Breathing hard, he takes care not to move for the next couple of moments.

“Your shoulder…” Yassen says, trailing off uncharacteristically. Alex waits for the other man to finish his sentence, but all Yassen does is stare blankly at Alex with no intention of speaking again unprompted. He really is shit at conversation.

“What?” Alex blurts, unable to stand the other man’s silence. “Is it bad? broken? sprained? Do I have to go to the hospital?”

“I’m trying to decide if I should tell you beforehand or not,” Yassen says vaguely, not answering _any_ of Alex's questions, and then reaches over to prod at the swelling.

Another fiery burst of pain explodes from his shoulder. “Decide to tell me wha—”

Alex screams in a red hot agony when Yassen leans forward and does something to Alex’s shoulder with both his hands. After the wave of immense pain passes, Alex realizes that he’s clutching onto his bath towel with a white-knuckled grip, as if it could grant him some sort of reprieve, digging his fingers into the soft fabric hard enough that the already frayed threads threaten to rip even further.

“What the fuck,” Alex croaks, surprisingly still conscious. Yassen doesn’t even tell him to mind his language this time. 

Alex turns to the mirror, and his shoulder looks a little bit more like how it’s normally supposed to look. Oh.

“Dislocated shoulder,” Yassen shrugs. “Better not to warn you.”

A low, pained groan escaped Alex’s throat. Should he say thanks? He’s not quite sure what the etiquette is for when the assassin who killed your uncle but also saved you from certain death twice in a night helps reset your shoulder.

Yassen takes the bath towel from Alex’s fingers and unfurls it to its full size.

“Turn around,” Yassen orders.

Too tired to protest, Alex complies, shuffling around so that he’s no longer facing Yassen. He’s only mildly surprised when he feels soft fabric against his skin as Yassen towels him off, methodically patting Alex’s hair and drying the water from his shoulders. He shivers whenever the other man’s fingers accidentally graze past Alex’s bare skin.

When Yassen finishes, Alex’s hair is still stubbornly damp, sticking to his forehead. The assassin tugs at the messy ends to check, and sure enough, Alex’s hair is nowhere near dry.

Alex huffs and reaches for his shirt. Instead of a twinge of pain stopping him this time, it’s Yassen’s fingers curling around his wrists for the second time that night.

“Go to the kitchen,” Yassen says, revealing nothing in his inscrutable expression.

“What, I’m not allowed to get dressed in my own home?” Alex protests. Yassen narrows his eyes at him.

“Okay, okay! Fine!” Alex concedes, albeit reluctantly. “Go to the kitchen, don’t get dressed, don’t touch the knives, don’t stick the tines of the metal forks into the wall sockets. Got it.”

Alex is suddenly hyper-aware of the other man’s proximity, again completely invading Alex’s bubble of safe space. He isn’t one to be easily intimidated by other people, but the way Yassen _stares_ at him, like he can look right through Alex and into his insides and see all the thoughts and feelings that Alex has locked away deeply and thrown away the key to.

Locks mean nothing to Yassen.

He nervously tugs against Yassen’s hold on his wrists. “You have to let go of me, first.”

Yassen drops Alex’s wrists, looking too nonchalant for Alex’s liking.

Still shirtless and barefoot, Alex limps pathetically to the kitchen, slumping against the cold surface of the kitchen island for support in the dark. Yassen doesn’t immediately follow after him. The other man has been nothing but helpful all night long. Alex just doesn’t know _why_.

Yassen soon appears in the kitchen with a first aid kit in hand and an almost apologetic look on his face. He flips a single light on and Alex screws up his eyes momentarily at the sudden brightness. “I’m afraid I couldn’t find any local anesthetic,” Yassen says, this time almost apologetic in his tone.

“What?” Alex’s brows furrow in confusion. “No, we have painkillers somewhere. I’m certain.”

“I searched,” Yassen politely replies, even though he’s obviously telling Alex that he’s wrong.

“I don’t suppose you could go pop out and buy some,” Alex mutters. Yassen only stares at him in response.

Alex pulls out a chair, but before he can sit, Yassen shakes his head and gestures at the kitchen island, the dim ceiling light reflective on its surface.

“You want me to get on the…” Alex trails off, frustration growing. “I can’t exactly climb up there with the shape that my ankle’s in.” He’s in no way lying. If it weren’t for Yassen, Alex would be sprawled out in bed already, regardless of whether his injuries needed treatment or not.

Yassen sweeps the few miscellaneous items on the island off to one side and gives Alex a patient look. Alex exhales and approaches the island, fully intending on climbing it himself, but he yelps in surprise when Yassen curls an arm around the back of his knees and picks him up in one swift, deft motion, easily depositing him on top of the kitchen island without any strain. Something inside Alex churns pleasantly at the show of strength.

Yassen pats Alex’s right leg twice, a warm touch against the exposed skin of his bare thigh, and Alex compliantly lifts his leg onto the island, letting the other one swing freely.

When Alex’s eyes zone in on the mottled purple bruising at his ankle, he sucks in a weak breath. 

“Is it bad?” Alex asks, his voice hysterically rising an octave.

“As opposed to good?” Yassen lightly rotates Alex’s ankle, but he winces and retracts from Yassen’s touch as a jolt of pain shoots up his spine. 

“Well?” 

“Good news,” Yassen says. “It’s sprained.”

Alex splutters. “How’s that _good_?” 

“Well,” Yassen says. “The bone isn’t broken or fractured or poking out through your skin. You’ll heal easily. Just stay off the ankle.”

“Just stay off the ankle,” Alex echoes. “What about… ice? Or a frozen bag of peas?”

“Do you have either of those things in your refrigerator?” Yassen asks, mildly amused.

“... No.”

Yassen grabs a tube of something that Alex can’t quite read from the first aid kit. Wait, is Yassen going to—?

Alex holds very, very still as Yassen uncaps the salve and proceeds to rub a bit of the cream onto every single exposed bruise on his body: his professionally reset shoulder, the spots littered all over his chest and sides, and then the ones scattered on various locations on his legs. As Yassen is finishing up a couple of smaller splotches below his knee, Alex leans forward and lowers his elbows, hoping to hide a particularly damning bruise on his inner thigh, large and discolored.

“Alex,” Yassen says, disappointment laced throughout his tone, obviously seeing through Alex’s shift in position.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I can do all of this by myself?” Alex asks, refusing to move his elbows out of the way.

“Did it ever occur to you to treat your wounds before sleeping?” Yassen replies, eyes fixated on the spot that Alex is failing to obscure.

Alex makes a low, irritated noise. Yassen continues to stare impassively at him, refusing to back down.

Alex knows that he can be extremely stubborn, and he bets that Yassen can be just as stubborn if he wants to, but Alex has to take into account that he’s freezing his arse off sitting on his kitchen island in nothing but his underwear and the fact that he really wants to pass out in a comfortable bed.

Alex clenches his eyes shut for a moment. His entire body is aching, pain beginning to climb in a crescendo like the ascent of a tidal wave. The faster he gets this over with, the faster he can sleep off the pain and wake up and maybe have Jack or Tom buy some painkillers and ice for him if he begs them extra nicely.

Alex feels whatever dignity left in him from the night drain away when he shifts his elbows back and reluctantly spreads his legs wider to give Yassen more space to work with.

Yassen leans over, methodically inspecting the bruise. “How did this even happen?”

“Beats me,” Alex shrugs, grimacing when his shoulder protests against the movement.

“Yes, he did beat you,” Yassen says in a breezy, almost pleasant tone. Alex lets out an incredulous huff to conceal the fact that he genuinely almost laughs at the assassin’s response. The other man’s mouth faintly twitches upward.

Yassen places one hand on Alex’s right calf to brace himself and begins to rub a generous amount of bruise cream onto the contusion.

Alex visibly shivers at the warmth of Yassen’s fingers on his thigh. Yassen pauses at this.

“It’s cold,” Alex explains hurriedly.

“It is,” Yassen agrees, and resumes.

He watches Yassen’s face carefully for a reaction, but the assassin is perfectly blank and clinical as he continues to soothingly rub the ointment onto the bruise on Alex’s inner thigh. His other hand has repositioned itself to the crease behind Alex’s knee, gently kneading in no particular pattern at first.

Yassen is being clinical… but Alex, like the hormonal teenager that he is, begins to feel the thrumming of a pleasurable warmth in his veins, the hazy beginnings of arousal. It definitely doesn’t help that Yassen’s hand is right on Alex’s inner thigh, way too close to a certain unnamed location for comfort.

Alex hates to admit it, but the slow, circular motions Yassen is rubbing into his skin behind his knee with his thumb feels really, really good, on top of the hand basically caressing his thigh and occasionally slipping under the outer edges of his boxer briefs, whether Yassen is doing it on purpose or not. 

_Don’t get hard_ , Alex prays. _Don’t get hard, oh god, don’t get hard, think about Ian’s death, Alan Blunt’s ugly grey face, salty anchovies on pizza, the clone who tried to murder you just several hours ago, oh god, please don’t get hard_ —

Alex wriggles uncomfortably, hoping to displace some of the inappropriate sensations he’s feeling.

“Hold still, Alex,” Yassen chides, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“You’re not the one with bruises and scrapes everywhere,” Alex shoots back immediately. Yassen presses down particularly hard on a bruise as soon as Alex finishes speaking, prompting a hiss of displeasure. Pain is good. Pain is better than what Alex was feeling just moments earlier.

There’s a few seconds of a sudden tense silence.

“Can I put my clothes back on after this?” Alex asks. Yassen must sense something uneasy in his voice because he pauses mid-rub and looks up at Alex with a puzzled expression.

“Point Blanc was—there were doctors or nurses or something? I don’t really know who, but I’m quite frankly tired of waking up naked after someone’s undressed me without my permission,” Alex explains quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. 

Yassen caps the tube of bruise cream and returns it to the first aid kit, silently listening along before slowly nodding in understanding.

“Also, it’s bloody fucking freezing just sitting here,” Alex adds, as an afterthought. That earns him narrowed eyes and a light pinch to an untarnished spot of skin. Alex jolts at the slight pressure, feeling very tempted to childishly stick his tongue out at Yassen in retaliation. 

The pain and exhaustion must really be getting to him. His fight with Julius wasn’t just a one-sided beating and Alex got plenty of hits in as well… it’s just that he’s actually alive to feel the intensity of the aftermath. 

It’s all very unfair, Alex decides, that Julius doesn’t need to deal with any of this. Then again, Julius is also very dead.

The shrill chime of a phone goes off, cutting through the silence of the house. Alex blinks and tries to think through the tiredness that’s beginning to cloud his head. That’s not his or Jack’s or the landline’s ring, so it must be—

“Слушаю,” Yassen says into a burner phone, which Alex guesses is some form of _hello_ , possibly.

The assassin pauses before glancing over at Alex. A string of incomprehensible Russian spills steadily from Yassen’s mouth, his tone neutral and voice balanced as he speaks.

It almost sounds like Yassen is giving a report to some higher up, like the way Alex briefed Mrs. Jones about the reality of Point Blanc after she and MI6 picked him up from the bottom of the mountain after he got hit by a truck. 

The thought that Yassen actually works for some other authority or organization has never even crossed Alex’s mind. A part of him wants to listen in to the conversation to see if he can pick any sentences up, but another part of him knows that he can’t understand a lick of Russian and that he’d much rather stay out of all this business, thank you very much.

Still… it's bold of Yassen to answer the phone while Alex is right there. Before Alex can say a word, or anything, really, that the person on the other end might potentially overhear, Yassen lifts his index finger to his lips in the universal symbol of “be quiet” and gives Alex a pointed look that promises not-so-fun consequences if Alex disobeys.

Alex purses his lips as Yassen continues to speak, sounding quite serious about whatever he’s saying.

Well, that’s enough of Yassen playing nursemaid for the night. Alex eases himself off the kitchen island and onto his good ankle, steadying himself on the surface and slowly scooting along until he reaches the wall. From there, he lets Yassen’s voice fade behind him and he carefully takes his time shuffling back to the bathroom, fully intent on retrieving his clothes and going straight to bed, regardless of whether Yassen is talking to some top-secret criminal terrorist organization in his kitchen or not.

Alex sidles up to the bathroom mirror and looks at himself for the third time that night. He looks awful. There’s no use sugar-coating it. He’s been through the wringer and back, and he’s only just returned from Point Blanc recently, as well. He shudders just thinking about it.

Alex finds himself staring emptily at his tired face in the mirror, the condensation completely evaporated from his shower.

“On the rooftop, when I asked you about your first kiss—” 

Alex jumps at the sudden proximity of another person, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. He didn’t hear Yassen approaching him _at all_.

“—you looked… off, Alex. What was that about?” Yassen asks, casually leaning against the bathroom door.

 _Oh god_ , Alex thinks, and he’s suddenly squeezing his eyes shut again at the imposing memory of Sasha and the movie playing in the background and her pressing _too close_ to him—

“There was a student at Point Blanc,” Alex croaks. “Her name was Sasha, except…”

“She was one of the clones,” Yassen guesses with a scary accuracy. Alex nods.

“This is going to sound stupid,” he mutters.

“I was the one who asked in the first place,” Yassen says. “Not stupid. Continue.”

“We were—it was—there was a film, and it was dark. She came up to me, put her hand on my—” Alex swallows. “—on my thigh, leaned in, and—she—she kissed me. That’s all. That’s it. No big deal.”

“If it isn’t a big deal,” Yassen says, softly, “why are you trembling?”

“I’m not,” Alex shakes his head insistently. Yassen reaches for Alex’s right hand, gently grabbing and lifting it to eye-level. 

There are, in fact, visible tremors.

Yassen’s fingers lace through his a moment later, intertwining them until Alex can feel the heat of the assassin’s palm pressed against his own. 

Alex stares at their conjoined hands. Yassen stares, too, with a puzzled expression that seems like he’s not entirely sure of what’s going on.

Yassen squeezes Alex’s hand, experimentally. Alex doesn’t know why, but he squeezes back. They hold hands for an indiscernible amount of time.

“... Would you like to forget it?” Yassen suddenly asks.

“What?” Alex responds, eloquent as always.

“Sasha,” Yassen explains, patiently. “Would you like to forget it?”

He thinks of her cold, unwanted hand on his thigh, her lips pressing forcefully against his, her cutting remark, _you should have enjoyed it_ , and his own sick confusion afterwards, _I should have enjoyed it—any other bloke would have—what’s wrong with me—_

Yassen moves abruptly, precisely, pinning Alex between his sturdy, lean body and the bathroom sink, shifting his hands to either side of Alex, resting on the edges of the basin. The heat comes off Yassen like a blazing furnace compared to the chilly emptiness of the house, compared to the freezing temperatures of Point Blanc and the frigid numbness of all its prison-like facilities, and compared to the bitter feel of Sasha’s lips on his.

“What are you—” Yassen dips his head down and presses forward, tucking his face into the space below Alex’s right ear, only a few centimetres away. “—doing…?!” Alex squeaks. He presses his palms against Yassen’s chest to shove him away but freezes when he feels a hot exhale of air on his neck. 

“Push me away, little Alex,” Yassen murmurs, the low rumble of his voice reverberating against Alex’s skin. “ _Push_.”

Alex’s face is on fire, his neck tingling pleasantly. Yassen is offering him a way to opt-out. MI6 has never done that. 

The silence drags on for a moment longer before Alex relaxes his palms, no longer poised to shove the other man away. He hears a quiet inhale next to him at the implications.

It only mildly surprises Alex when the next thing he feels is warm, soft lips moving against his, pressing gently. After a moment of uncertainty, Alex finally responds, kissing back in a rather clumsy, untalented manner.

When Yassen leans away, Alex barely manages to stifle a whine of protest. 

“What?” he asks, cheeks aflame. He licks his lips instinctively, wetting them. Yassen’s eyes flicker down to follow the movement, expectantly. That could be a dangerous thing, doing what you’re expected to when your job requires you to be the opposite—inconsistent, unpredictable, and unroutine. Somewhere out there, gears turn, shifting as something new slides into place with a _click_. It smells like the faint burnt char leftover from an explosion, a cheap knock off brand of body wash, and the lingering smell of the Thames on clothing. It smells clinical and cold and sharp, like rain and sleet and an impending snowstorm, a plain no-name bar of soap, and the muffled fragrance of mint and fluoride and citrus. It smells like a clinging whiff of chlorine, the sulfur of gunpowder left by an antique shotgun, and a pungent fishiness accompanied by a trace of Italian herbs and oregano. It smells like one sugar and no cream and warm, freshly baked pirozhki instead of two sugars and a splash of milk and cold, store-bought scones. It smells like a weakness.

“Shouldn’t you have more experience at this?” Yassen looks amused. _Arsehole._

Alex glares at him. “I’m sixteen. I have plenty of experience for my age.”

“Of course,” Yassen says. “My mistake.”

Alex can’t help but fixate on at the bottom half of the assassin’s face, his stubbled jaw and chiseled lips, pulling up into a shadow of a smile.

“You should go to bed and sleep, Alex,” Yassen says, leaning away. “You’ve had a long week.” Something tells Alex that Yassen knows exactly how long his week’s been. This thing with Julius, the explosion in the room with Stellenbosch, snowboarding down a mountain with a makeshift ironing board while escaping from a hail of bullets, being probed while unconscious, the feeling of complete and utter _isolation_ , all the sneaking and lying, MI6, and Ian, oh _god_ , Ian. Killed by the man standing in front of Alex. The worst part is that Alex doesn’t even _mind_.

All the warmth is suddenly sucked out of him at the reminder and he snaps out of the almost numbing stupor he’s in, feeling the pain of his fight with Julius resurfacing in a surge of hyperawareness, and returning with that flood is the previous dull ache being dialed up to a hundred, a throbbing agony that feels like it’s increasing exponentially, and _oh fuck_ does it _hurt_ _it fucking hurts oh god_ —

He feels himself pale at the thought of spending the next several hours like this, staring at the stark white of his bedroom ceiling wide-eyed and writhing and hurting, unable to sleep as the minutes all drift together in an amalgamation of discomfort and pain.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” Alex whispers, his voice a strangled rasp. “It… It hurts too much—and I can’t—I can’t stop thinking about Point Blanc.”

They stare at each other motionlessly.

Yassen opens his mouth, hesitant, and then closes it without saying anything.

“... What?” Alex asks, wary at Yassen’s unusual uncertainty.

“There’s a way,” Yassen explains, slowly, “to reduce pain without painkillers. It involves stimulating the brain to release a rush of dopamine and serotonin, natural pain reducers, to relieve physical pain and stress—”

“You mean—you mean—” Alex stammers, face suddenly flushing a bright red.

Yassen nods.

It’s Alex’s turn to be left gaping like a fish. He’s been embarrassingly half-hard since the kitchen and has probably been doing an appallingly abysmal job in trying to hide it.

Yassen slowly lifts his left hand and threads his fingers through Alex’s still-wet hair, leaning forward again, this time to press a burning open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of Alex’s throat, and then another one similar below it, and then another, and another until Alex involuntarily tilts his head back to allow for better access, panting heavily as one of Yassen’s hands drop, sliding around Alex’s waist before resting on his hips, the other lowering to the small of his back, caressing his bare skin with feather-light touches, sending Alex’s head spinning with an acute arousal.

When Yassen’s knee presses against Alex’s erection, he whimpers at the pressure, mouth dropping slightly agape in a choked gasp. His hips involuntary jerk forward, chasing the friction. Yassen moves his leg so that Alex ruts against nothing but thin air.

Alex’s entire face is on fire, red hot in embarrassment. “S-Sorry—I—”

Yassen shushes him, cutting his apology off. “Are you sure you want this?”

Alex nods slowly, averting Yassen’s gaze. Yassen trails his fingers past Alex’s neck and up to his chin, tilting his face upwards, forcing him to meet Yassen’s eyes. 

“Are you sure?” he repeats his question again, firmly.

“Yes,” Alex answers, just as firmly, more sure about this than anything else from the last two weeks.

Yassen steadily drops to his knees, shifting around until he’s in a comfortable position before looking back up at Alex, something soft in his eyes betraying his mostly neutral expression.

Alex’s eyes widen at the sight, a dizzying thrill accompanied by an intense flare of need shooting up his spine at the idea of Yassen, a dangerously competent contract killer, being on his knees for Alex.

Alex's mind goes blank when Yassen mouths at the bulge in his underpants before hooking his fingers into the elastic waistband of Alex’s boxers and tugging them low, past his hips, low enough to free his growing erection. Alex whimpers when Yassen’s knuckles graze the underside of it before palming the base, pressing and squeezing until Alex’s eyes drift shut and his breathing starts to grow labored, riding out the pulse of electrifying sensations racing down his spine.

And then something warm and wet engulfs his prick and all semblance coherency flies out the window, a throaty whine ripping from Alex’s lips at the delicious scorch of pleasure that burns its way through his body. Alex’s hips involuntarily surge at the sudden bliss from the hot pressure wrapping around his dick, but Yassen presses him back against the washbasin, holding his hips still, tongue flattening against the underside of Alex’s cock.

A soft cry tumbles out of Alex’s throat, a carnal ache beginning to build in his lower belly, a signal of how embarrassingly close to coming he already is.

Yassen runs his tongue from the base of Alex’s shaft upwards, missing the tip, probably on purpose— _arsehole_ , Alex thinks, momentarily—and then he repeats the motion again, producing a choked keen from Alex that extinguishes any further thoughts.

Alex’s cock twitches at the teasing, a glob of pre-come gathering at the tip.

The wet mouth on Alex’s prick pulls off until the tip is barely resting against Yassen’s bottom lip, the heat of his breath teasing the sensitive head.

The assassin pauses all of his movements.

Alex groans, frustrated. Yassen wants him to beg? _Seriously?_

Yassen presses a soft kiss to the throbbing head of Alex’s dick, followed by a quick swipe of his tongue and absolutely nothing else. Alex groans again, his hips failing to roll forward in an attempt to pursue the sensation, the assassin still holding him against the sink with an unfair amount of strength. Yassen’s tongue lingers on the tip playfully.

A teenager can only have so much restraint.

“Please,” Alex begs, his voice cracking midway, finally conceding. Yassen’s lips slide back over Alex’s cock in an agonizingly glacial pace. A punched out cry of frustration escapes Alex’s throat, maddeningly unable to chase his impending climax. Yassen slowly tongues his slit, teasing the weeping head of his prick.

Unable to help himself, Alex reaches down with his hands, only for them to get swatted away by the assassin.

“Y-Yassen,” Alex whimpers, his breath uneven. “Yassen, _please_.” He thinks he imagines Yassen’s fingers tightening around Alex’s hips at his pleading.

Alex clenches his eyes shut and almost sobs in relief when he finally feels the other man begin to move normally again, bobbing his head up and down rhythmically, sucking at irregular intervals, occasionally accompanied by light, swirling motions of his tongue.

Alex’s hands scrabble for purchase on the hand basin behind him at his waist-level, clutching the edges desperately at a particularly hard suck from the assassin, tantalizingly hot. He pants, his breath coming faster and faster.

When Alex eventually manages to pry his eyes open, Yassen is staring up at him so fondly that Alex feels a visceral shiver of pleasure go through him and straight to his dick, lighting a fuse. His whole body goes still for a moment before he shudders violently, throwing his head back, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth dropped open in a long, loud wail as the aching tension in his lower belly uncoils, his cock twitching when the assassin finally allows Alex’s hips to jerk forward as he comes into Yassen’s mouth, his vision whiting out and his body twitching and spasming with each sensitive spurt of come that leaves his sensitive slit, spilling into a hot mouth still suckling and swallowing at Alex’s swollen cockhead. He inhales sharply, desperately struggling for breath when a dizzying pleasure unfurls throughout his entire body, raw and toe-curling, his ears ringing as he floats on a euphoric, blissful high for a good twenty seconds, all with the knowledge that Yassen’s gaze is still wholly fixated on Alex.

Alex slumps bonelessly, slightly wide-eyed and dazed. Somewhere along the line, his boxer briefs are tugged back up to their proper place. 

Yassen wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before standing back up to his full height. “You can sleep now, yes?” he asks, like he hasn’t just sucked Alex’s brains out through his cock.

Alex nods numbly, entranced by the sight of the assassin’s reddened lips.

Suddenly feeling bold, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Yassen’s lips, shivering at the illicit thrill down his spine. Yassen parts his lips and Alex licks into his open mouth, tasting hints of a bitter saltiness from—from himself.

Alex backs away quickly, suddenly shy, a dark blush staining his cheeks.

For once, Yassen actually looks slightly caught off guard for a moment before his features school back into that familiar impassiveness.

“Leaving then?” Alex asks, still flushed, gazing into Yassen’s eyes. True to the Russian’s words, his previous stiff joints, aching muscles, and stinging cuts have all been replaced by a pleasant cloudy haziness.

“Leaving,” Yassen affirms, mirroring their first encounter. The assassin’s voice is slightly hoarse. 

Alex shivers. _He_ did that.

Yassen brings his hand up to cup Alex’s cheek, a calloused thumb gently caressing the corner of his mouth. “Sweet dreams, little Alex,” he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur. 

Alex makes a throaty incoherent noise in response.

Yassen passes the bathroom doorway and leaves, the distant muffled shutting of Alex’s front door signifying the finality of the assassin’s exit.

Alex stares at the cold, empty space in front of him for a long time. He lifts his fingers to his mouth and tentatively touches his lips, reliving Yassen’s goodbye. His cheeks continue to burn, even long after the assassin leaves. 

Alex slowly dresses himself and limps to bed. He falls asleep immediately, feeling no pain, and dreams of chiseled lips and a distinctive scar.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you liked it, at all? I was aiming more for an exhausted tv!alex characterization this time rather than the quippy sassy book!alex,,


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